Definition
by lena1987
Summary: Slow and steady goes the spy. Until he doesn't. Dystopian AU. SSHG. Complete.


_Written for the 2016 SSHG Gift Fest over on LJ. The style of this story is entirely for cabepfir, a writer I admire very much._

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 **Recipient:** cabepfir

 **Title:** Definition

 **Author/Artist:** lena1987

 **Rating:** PG13

 **Word Count/Art Medium/Craft Material:** 4345

 **Content:** Very vague/distant references to work camps, breast cancer.

 **Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Summary:** Slow and steady goes the spy. Until he doesn't. Dystopian AU.

 **Author's Note:** With thanks to M  & C.

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 **Definition**

 _22_ _nd_ _of November, 1998_

 _Complacency is a curious thing. If it were my book that held the sliver of parchment, it would be marked at: uncritical. Quiet, perhaps. Careful._

 _An interesting observation – albeit pointless._

 _I left a small Notice-Me spell tied to: powerless._

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Dear Mum,

I am tempted to write that this is pointless. Well, it is. This letter is pointless, and yet here I am, scrawling away. The candle is burned down almost to the quick – is that hilarious to you? It is to me. 2001. My candle is almost out.

I can't use magic here.

I don't know how else to explain my situation.

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 _19_ _th_ _of March, 1999_

 _The psychological effects of slavery are numerous. I am unsure which Granger displayed first; the meekness, or the acquiescence. Both are out of character – as a student, I found her brash and far too bold. In the first few months of her first year, she covered her loneliness with a thirst for coursework. She would inch into my office, an exemplary example of Cousin Itt, and clear her little throat._

 _'_ _Good morning, Professor Snape, sir,' she would say from under that horrid sprawling bush of hair, having always chosen to visit me during my previously silent free hour between 8 and 9 on Thursdays._

 _By her third month, I was having trouble coming up with new ways to discourage her at face value. By her sixth month, there was a stack of parchment on closest bookcase to the door. Added to my wards – never! But she came to be a regular fixture each Thursday, knocking thrice and darting in with a close-to-shrill 'GoodmorningProfessorSnapethankyouverymuchIhopeyouarewell!' – she never seemed to draw breath._

 _Anyway, she would take an assignment, or a reading suggestion, from the stack. On the Thursday after, it would be submitted before she slid another task from the pile._

 _Should I have known then that the practice would continue until that fateful night when she came for additional work—supposedly—and stayed to assist a stunned Flitwick instead?_

 _Possibly not._

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I am supposed to be assisting with brewing. But how can I do that, when I have no wand? I am unsure, really, how our arrangement even began. Not the servitude - that was surprising, albeit better than expected. Not even Snape – at the time, the thought of living in his home was enough to make vomit seep into my mouth. I spat it out at his feet during the binding. Rather mortifying, but like many things, it cannot be taken back.

I mean, I always knew he was… well, no. I don't have to be all-knowing here, do I?

He has, for the most part, been on our side. I knew that – I know that. And yet, this is his skill: doubt. He nurtures it. Encourages it. Coaxes it into a festering creature. And he is good at it, Mum. I doubt him _constantly._ Or, I did.

So, to the beginning.

We lost – of course you know this, if indeed you received the owl from Bill. But neither of you are short tools from the box; I assume that you put two and two together. I heard that the Dark Lord—sorry, habit—destroyed a bridge or two in the early days after his victory.

Ah, what a victory it was! Is. Present tense works here, Mum, I tell you.

Remember at the kitchen table one summer, when you once said to me: "Don't you think it's strange that T.R. didn't just finish Harry off over the years while he was at Hogwarts? A mastermind wizard, or what have you, against a child?"

And I said, "I do. I think it's because he's a psychopathic, egotistical terrorist who refuses to chance being bested."

It still stands.

Did you know…

Harry Potter lives.

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 _21_ _st_ _of August, 1999_

 _Yesterday, Himself ordered the killing of—_

 _Or not. He is so desperate to prove his cultured new-world-order, that he has a secretary. Someone takes notes of meetings. DEs guard wizarding streets to provide…security. It is laughable._

 _I managed to record every name of those that have fled the country._

 _I don't know what to do with those names._

 _What use have I of two rag-tag Weasley brothers? A dissenting rabble of ex-students?_

 _Granger and I communicate through bookmarks left in dictionaries. The world is mad as it is._

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So he lives, yes. He wasn't supposed to – but if Fate is on my side, perhaps you'll hear more about that from the source. Anyway: he lives. As do I. And most survivors of the last battle—decidedly not capitalised—are still alive and kicking. Kicking weakly, to be fair.

Is this inconceivable? I think so. Charity Burbage was eaten by a giant, magical snake. Harry Potter lives in a basement, along with most of the Weasley clan. Bill, who warned those that he could, and Percy, managed to escape before we were all rounded up. They've been permanently banished. T.R. doesn't care if they spread the truth far and wide – he's rather xenophobic, see, and is content to ignore all foreign opinions.

I know all this because my captor, Lord Severus Snape—hah!—is a most treasured member of T.R.'s inner circle. And because S.S. also passes on every single titbit of information to… me.

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In the beginning—there was the Word, and the Word was absent—he didn't speak. Not at all.

I have a small room on the second floor of the two-up, two-down. It is a tiny little thing. The first time I trudged up the stairs and found myself locked inside of it, I put out my hands from the bed and touched the opposite wall.

It is my own little room under the stairs – of a sort.

Worse, still, is the fact that it took me four entire cycles of the moon to fathom that Snape—unpleasant, dour, murderous, enigmatic Snape—had divided one already small room into two. The small thumps and ghosts of sounds at night belonged to _him._

So it is a three-up, two-down.

Now I know that he refuses to sleep in his parents' room. He won't tell me why.

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Molly found a lump in my breast. That there is the official reason for my presence here, as a listed prisoner. You see, we couldn't use magic in the basement. I suppose they still cannot. They/we are all held for propaganda, you see, and for confusion. Twice now, my dead body has turned up on Wizarding streets, in revenge for rebel attacks. Each time, I have been 'spotted' afterwards out and about, being a good little non-witch and submitting to weekly check-ins with T.R.'s Ministry.

I have not done any of these things, obviously.

I have been here.

The lump. Molly found the lump. It was part of her quest to be everything to all of us, sans magic. By the time her soft fingers pressed down on it, it had been inconveniencing me with painful flashes for a fortnight. I didn't mention it. What was the point? I was counting down the minutes until I could rename myself a Romanov and be true to it, bar a jewel or two. That turned out to be wrong, but let it not be said that I was in my right mind in the basement.

Because T.R. is magnanimous and generous, and wishes only the best for his flock, it was decided that a basement warded to not allow any magic—including remedies or diagnostics—was not the best place for me.

Snape's doorstep, then. Oh, a cheerless place, Spinner's End. Cold. Dark. The foul stench of the canal. I struggle even to picture vessels venturing along on the rank water when the canal was in use.

He opened the door with nary a sound, and spared no glance to the two portly guards standing at each shoulder. The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing his full, black teaching robes. They were a strange comfort – until I noticed his sour, thin-lipped face.

"Granger," he grunted. "In."

I gave him a little scoff. Tossed my head a bit. For pride.

He turned and strode back into the house. There was a slight billow of the teaching robes.

And that was it.

Crabbe sounded terribly bored. "Glad he's got her. Never used to shut up in school."

"Aye," grumbled Goyle. "Uptight little chit. This'll teach her. Teach all of 'em. Go in." He gave me a prod. "Get inside."

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 _23_ _rd_ _December, 1999_

 _Christmastide is dark this year. Darker than the last – darker than even 1997, when I wondered if I would ever see the sun again thanks to the chill of His monsters._

 _Today I found a bookmark nestled between the pages, with no clear indication of what it was referring to. It is possible that Granger wishes me to see either:_

Slow

/sləʊ/

ADJECTIVE

Moving or operating, or designed to do so, only at a low speed; not quick or fast.

 _Or_

Slick

/slɪk/

ADJECTIVE

Smooth and superficially impressive but insincere or shallow.

 _This does not bother me. Why should it? I have always toiled alone. Whether or not there are others in the dark, wide world doing the same as I is of no consequence. I do not trust any to lead a cohesive fighting group. The last time I gave my soul…_

 _And what of my soul? Mine?_

 _Lost._

 _And maybe this is selfishness, but better a lone wolf—as I am—than a useless sod in a disorganised, hopeless unit._

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Servitude does not become me. Remember how messy my room was? Didn't you once find something so entrenched with mould, that you were unsure as to whether it even had life to begin with? Life beyond green, furry matter, of course.

S had either received reports on my condition, or he cast his own spells the first night. I tasted complex potions during my first cup of tea. It was a cold morning. I was standing in the kitchen; hip leaning against a bench. He was looking at me from the table. I was willing my eyes to say: this means nothing – _you and me. This façade. Nothing._

I did not quite achieve that. He extended his long, wiry limbs and left the table. His thin lips were pressed together so firmly that they were all swallowed up in his mouth.

I thought he would say something. I remember blinking rapidly; taking a step back.

S merely stood in front of me, closely. We shared a breath.

And then he shook his head and left the room. I bit my lip. Flicked my fingers against my cheek. Retrieved his plate from the table. Deliberated over it.

And then I washed it. Done.

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There is no-one else in the house, save the silent Lord Snape. None but me – Hermione Granger, identification number… Interestingly, I cannot remember now what it was. T.R. seemed to take a perverse thrill from using it to name me, but S calls me nothing and the house does not speak. I was only blessed with an audience in front of the Dark Lord twice; his rasping voice uttering a few random numbers has left my memory.

S has no house-elf. This is puzzling in and of itself, as all magical items can be cleaned by magical hands. Don't believe any weak excuses about delicate items being cleaned without magic. No, no. But that's a tangent that I do not have the time to start off on.

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 _1_ _st_ _January, 2000_

 _It is hard to believe that it has been close to two years since the witch was thrust into my keeping. I have resented every moment. I have resented, I do resent it, I will resent it._

 _Her._

 _I go on much as I always did. Botch things where I can. Retain information. Record it. Honestly: some may view recording as dangerous, but if I were suspected enough to have my home searched, I would be dead anyway._

 _Everyone who survived the Battle is still alive. The teachers remain in Hogwarts, albeit housed in group accommodations in the dungeons. The students who were under my benevolent care during my time as Headmaster are well – if weary. Mass murder is dirty work, after all, and who would be around to obey Our orders if there were no masses at all? Himself is rather pleased with the United Kingdom at the moment – we have managed to overturn the entire Magical population, and still the Muggle world remains unaware, for the most part. After all, He must remain true to his old promises from the first war. I remember that._

 _I was stood in a room, hair stupidly oiled back, boots stupidly shining. And He was saying things. On a teenager's anarchist whim, I stupidly agreed. Just one nod of my head._

 _An interesting fact: Karl Marx is only read these days so suitors can impress well-bred middle class girls. A little bit of rough. And there I was – angry, in leather, a cheap fag. Ripe for the picking._

 _And now here I am. Old. Angry. Not in leather. Not with a fag. More of a nihilist than an uncomprehending anarchist (in fact, recalling that I used to consider myself in such a way is quite mortifying – I knew nothing then, obviously). Joints creaking. I create potions of mass destruction in my basement. Just last week, Hermione Granger bottled a tiny vial that held enough poison to enter North London's water supply._

 _Not unlike the Cold War. I make these weapons, and yet, I have never supervised their distribution. I can count on one hand the times that I did so in the first war. But these days, oh, no. We are civilised. We are focused on deterrence. The weapons are a threat; a constant, ready-to-go threat. And who, I ask, would be prepared to risk assassinating someone or other, if Himself decided to retaliate?_

 _I know who. But he died by my wand, and I cannot even remember the exact shade of white that his beard was, anymore._

 _The Order regrouped. How do I know this? The same reason why I know other things, I suppose. One could be right in assuming that I may, indeed, know everything._

 _For instance:_

 _Yesterday, an owl flew into my mother's bedroom. It flapped around for a bit. Squawked._

 _I said: 'What brings you?'_

 _And it looked at me. Grunted – in a way. Cocked its head. Held out its leg. And there it was._

 _A letter._

 _For her._

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I discovered that S was waiting. He still is. Each faint sound of movement from outside causes him to stop whatever he is doing. Each owl forces his tongue out of his mouth and over his dry lips. Every uncomfortable call of his Master makes him grunt, and hurry out of the house.

And now, that is interesting, because if anything, I would expect such a man—we all heard Harry's roars of Snape's loyalties, after all—to be underground. A guerrilla fighter. With the rest of them – because surely there are those not important enough to enslave, but furious enough to plot.

He never spoke, those first months. I hated him. Sometimes I still feel a flipping in my stomach – so strong that it feels as if my loathing is about to launch me from a great height.

And now, Mum, I think you are wondering how we went from silent, grudging housemates, to conspirators.

Well, how do you think?

His library.

Why

/wʌɪ/

INTERROGATIVE ADVERB

For what reason or purpose.

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 _30_ _th_ _of July, 2000_

 _The heat is never ending. It has caused a strangeness within the household. We are close enough to the canal that it feels humid. The air is heavy. It sinks. Sometimes I sit upstairs—hot air rises—and think that I can_ _hear_ _sweat pooling under my arms, then slowly meandering its stench-filled way down my sides._

 _I am morose. Granger seems to not know whether to trust me. I did not open the letter from that owl, many nights ago. I held onto it, and then deposited it next to her cup of tea. She did not look at me. She washed my dishes, and did not speak of it._

 _Or – she doubts me. This is a good thing, or it would've been five years ago, but Christ, not now!_

 _I gave up the definitions. Barked at her. She didn't know what to do with her body. Oh, she has heard me speak, but rarely. Here I am, Granger. Voice and anger and insults. No more sodding Cambridge dictionaries._

 _I feel a renewed sense of passion. Life. Impatience. My left leg has become restless. Sometimes I wake in the night and feel it drumming on the thin mattress._

 _I want to get out. I want to get out. I want to get out._

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For a long time, I was critical of him.

I know, Mum. I know. I should've been patient. Kind. Charitable. But he was so slow! Even his steps. In school, he strode so swiftly that one felt lazy simply for standing in his wake. Here, he thuds along, shoulders stooped. He goes out for meetings. Comes back. Attends inner-circle functions. Delivers WMDs. Brews.

Sometimes—and I do envy him this—he simply leaves the house and walks. On and on and on. His clothes are old and thin. His hair is cut unevenly short. S is so lanky that his nose stands out more than it used to; it makes him look more austere. Impoverished. Can a nose do that? All of that?

Hilariously—oh, do laugh—it has become a trend. T.R. sees him as the ultimate hermit. The enviable soul. The one with commitment so great, that he shuns all worldly matters. Last week, Nott came over for a quality—here, at least here, have a snigger—control examination on the wardings on Spinner's End. Have I mentioned that it is a little magical enclave now? The once-abandoned mill-worker houses now house Muggleborns and dissenting Half-bloods with shaven heads that are portkeyed into their places of toil each morning. (I don't know where the Purebloods go. Nowhere, probably).

Nott came here, and nodded with approval at how I was carefully attending to the tea service, and then excelling at making-myself-scarce. Before I left for the basement and paperwork, I noticed that Nott has allowed his usually-perfect attire to… falter. Frayed ends, scuffed boots. Rather like...

S didn't quite know what to say. He blinked once. Then he opened his mouth. Closed it. Cleared his throat, though it didn't need clearing, so it sounded like a warbled _hem._

I had never before heard him laugh.

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 _2nd of September, 2000_

 _The second of September! The second! The second!_

 _I miss it. I did not think I would. But every time September arrives, I feel a thrill in my stomach. A nervous thrill. Today I woke up and my leg did not cease its continuous tap tap tapping. Five full minutes, I was there, in bed, fighting the thought that there was somewhere important that I had to be. I had to be there! Now! Haste, haste._

 _Haste ye back. Not for me._

 _I do not think I shall ever see the school again. I dream of it. Sometimes I close my eyes and listen to Granger muttering under her breath—is she aware of this habit? I think not—and I am transported to the library. Not to the brightness of it – the light, the flecks of dust. Instead to the deep recesses at the ends; the sides. Sometimes I would venture so far and sit there, with a book, and my mind would trick itself into believing I was closed in: never to get out. Stuck in a library. The air was oppressive. Heavy._

 _I miss it._

 _Every scrub of her cleaning paraphernalia (some things I would struggle to lie about. Really. The idea is still so preposterous to me, that if she did_ not _serve my every need/wish/_ _desire,_ _I would not be able to create memories for it. So, she scrubs. I do not deny that I feel some sort of perverse, god-like warmth over it. Here I am: providing sanctuary for a Woman In Danger. Good Snape/Bad Snape.) can easily be manipulated into sounding like the sharp swish of parchment being shuffled._

 _Am I mad?_

 _Already?_

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After that day, I warmed to him. I thought of his laugh – gruff, short, sharp. A bit hysterical.

I began to think of him as more than… More… How to explain…

He was S, in my thoughts. And then he became Severus. And I started to taste the heaviness of his first name on my tongue. The back of my neck burned when he walked into a room. My body felt ungainly.

It feels strange to write this to you, but I could die tomorrow, and my own existence on this tarnished earth is because of desire. Why be shy?

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 _24_ _th_ _of December, 2000_

 _I think of her. I give her information, watch her write it by hand, then whistle for my own owl. My owl goes to another owl, then that owl goes to another, and another, and another…_

 _I have deduced that she is writing to Percy Weasley. What he does with the intel, I do not know. I do not want to know. I have come to the decision that I am here on this earth to continue to be on the inside, where I am useful, and to protect… to protect what is mine._

 _Granger is superficially mine. She has been bound to obey me. The thought sickens me, but this is the language of our Most Exalted He._

 _Yesterday, she ran out of clean clothes. She wore her loose black pyjama pants, with a battered button-down of mine. Every time she performed a task, she grumbled and shoved the sleeves up her arms._

 _Her wrists are delicate. Tiny. I find the suspension of belief difficult. I have not previously seen her as this sort of…being. Woman. I am most certainly not_ _blind __but I am an angry forty year old man. And yet here I am. Lying in bed. The velvet night carries fear and frost._

 _And I am thinking of her soft hands; her skin; the gentle arch of hand to wrist-bone to arm._

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He has the body of a poet. That is what I think when our bodies stick together in the heat of the room: he is like a starved, pale poet. That is not a Romantic vision. See him: sickly white, hair so black that his sunken eyes look sick underneath the coal. His bony chest is hairy (how?). I have come to enjoy tugging on the hairs there… they are imperfect. Scraggly. The colour of his nipples seems like a mistake in his creation.

But with all of this, there are feelings within me that rise up and threaten to overwhelm me. The feelings feel a little like l—

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 _3_ _rd_ _of January, 2001_

 _She has organised something. What? How? Who?_

 _I DON'T WANT TO KNOW._

 _I want to know more about the sound she makes when my nails trail along the undersides of her breasts. I want to know more about this odd, strangled little sigh – accompanied by clenching thighs. There are many things left to discover - will I ever?_

 _I want to know why her hands tremble most mornings when she pours potions into vials. I want to know when she turned from a brash girl to a hard, sad woman. This happened under my roof, I am sure of it, but I did not… I did not see her, then._

 _Do not misunderstand me. Her fight is mine, and mine is hers. Yes? I was resisting before she was displaying her first signs of magic. So, this is more important. I have a place, and it is beside her, and I carry no doubt._

 _But then…_

 _But then, I think of how we first…_

 _I heard her in the laboratory. She came up the stairs. I was standing at the top, watching her. Watching the small sway of her hips. Taking in her now-thin hair, pulled back too tight. I thought of moving out of her way. But then she paused. Doe eyes. Bitten lip. Tremulous smile._

 _I kissed her. I put my arms around her. Pressed the tips of my fingers into the curve of her waist. She gave a little sigh, and I considered tree roots spreading from our feet to fix us to the spot, never to leave it._

 _Never to leave it._

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There are two options, if you are reading this, Mum. Other possibilities do not bear thinking about.

The first: I was unsuccessful. I tried, and I failed, and I am dead in the ground. Severus is sitting with you in humid Brisbane, drinking your unsweetened tea. Your fingers are curled around my bitter letter. I am sorry. I love you.

The second: you are rolling your eyes, laughing at me. Severus and I are sitting with you in humid Brisbane, drinking your unsweetened tea. Your fingers are curled around my bitter letter. I am still sorry. I still love you.

You'll know tomorrow. Portkeys are instant. I hope mine works. I hope we win. I hope…

I have hope.

I look around the walls of our tiny home. I think of our plans. I think of the un-registered wand that Severus procured for me.

I see him sitting on the threadbare sofa. He is leaning forward. Elbows on knees. His hands cradle the diary that he writes in each night. This letter shall be tucked firmly within it and spelled to be as safe as he can keep it.

He is waiting for the moment that we will leave here, and risk ourselves for our own Greater Good. I am writing this from the rickety kitchen table. I see how he watches me, how his eyes follow the scratch of my quill, how his left arm is trembling.

I see all of him.

I see nothing but beauty.

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 _Finite._


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